The Ground Rules: Undone (6 page)

She drags the gadget across my stomach, the feel of it sleek. And as she taps at her computer, I close my eyes, not wanting to see, not wanting to become more attached than I already am.

She uh-ums and clicks away, and finally, she says, “Looks like about nine weeks.”

I open my eyes, and look at the screen. She points to the baby. And I see the shape on the screen. It’s hard to make out, but I can kind of see him…or her — a big head tucked into limbs. “Can I listen to the heart?” I ask. I don’t know what possesses me, but I want to hear it.

She looks away and doesn’t say a word.

I hear the quick thump-thump and I start crying, emotion taking a full hold of me. There’s no stopping it.

This is real.

This heart beating belongs to my child. Weston’s child. I can’t believe I would even consider this…even for a second. For some, it might be the right choice. But it isn’t for me.

“I know it’s very hard,” Alicia says. “This is probably the hardest decision you’ll ever have to make.”

I lean my head back down on the pillow and bury my drenched face in my hands. I can’t do this. I need to leave.

I practically sprint out of the room when the exam is done. When I make my way back to the reception area, Gwen looks up from her magazine. Her features shift when she sees me. I’m sure I must look dreadful. She stands up, but I run right past the waiting area and take refuge in the private bathroom.

I lock the door, not wanting her in with me.

Sure enough, she knocks. “Talk to me, Mirella.”

“Go away!” I scream. “I’m never talking to you again.”

I squat down against the door in tears, my face buried in my hands. Seeing that sonogram really shook me. I can’t help but think about Weston. He should know we have created a life. He has the right to know. My hands shake a little as I dig my cell out of my bag. My finger quivers as I slide it across the screen. I’m still crying as I press ‘contacts’ and slide my finger across the screen repeatedly until I reach ‘Weston’. My heart pounds as I press the green phone icon and wait.

I close my eyes when he answers.

“Mirella?” Weston says softly. “Hello.”

I don’t say a word.

“What are you doing in there?” Gwen shouts across the door.

“Damn you, Gwen,” I cry out and press on the ‘end call’ icon.

I just can’t do it. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

I stand and tuck away my phone. I wash my face, determined to walk out of here with my head high. I even finger-comb my hair and dab on a little lipstick. I jump at the sound of the old familiar Beyoncé tune playing on my cell. I grab my phone and see Weston’s name on the display. My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t talk to him. I let it go to voice mail and head out of the bathroom, my feet dragging.

Gwen is waiting impatiently. She practically jumps on me and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Talk to me.”

“I want to go. I can’t do it.”

“That’s fine,” she says, her voice soft. “We’ll go.”

As we head back to her car, she digs in her purse for her keys. “What were you doing in there?”

I debate between lying or just not saying anything at all. But I decide I’m tired of lying and hiding the truth. “Calling him,” I confess. “I was calling Weston.”

She stops dead in her tracks. “What?”

I wince, not quite looking at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I called him, but then I hung up.”

She starts to walk again. “Good. Glad to hear you came to your senses.”

As she’s just about to back up the car, my phone rings again. She fixes me, wide-eyed. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

I pull the phone out of my bag, yet again. “Yes.”

“Don’t answer it,” she orders. “And don’t you dare answer when he calls again. You still need time to think about this. You can’t let him influence you either way. This has to be your decision, Mirella.”

The little excursion with Gwen has really shaken me. It has made everything seem so real. Up until now, I had been living in a kind of bubble, where things weren’t quite concrete, where I was waiting for my pregnancy to spontaneously end, all on its own. But the baby is real and alive, its little heart beating fast.

All I’ve been thinking about is whether I should tell Gabe and Weston. Who should I tell first? And when?

I’ve decided to wait until I’m twelve weeks along. Then, I’ll tell Gabe first — tell him I’m carrying Weston’s child, and plan to keep it. I know this will be the end of us, of our family as we know it. We’ll separate and have to share custody of the girls. He’ll want to move out and I’ll be a complete mess. Perhaps we’ll do the ‘week on, week off’ arrangement. I’ll still see the girls every day at school and I’ll long to take them home with me every night. Or maybe he’ll just want to see them every other weekend, and they’ll miss him terribly and feel like their daddy doesn’t love them, but I highly doubt that. We’ll argue about who gets them for the holidays — he’ll insist on having them for Christmas. I will obviously no longer be spending Christmas at Gabe’s parents. Where will the baby and I spend Christmas?

And soon enough, he’ll have someone new in his life. How could he not, a looker like him. The women will probably line up.

And it’s going to kill me seeing him with someone else. Someone else living my life. And with my luck, she’ll probably be about twenty-five and annoyingly bubbly.

And Weston…I have no idea how he’ll react when I tell him. Will he insist I have an abortion? I won’t do it no matter what. I love this child. He’ll be livid. He’ll go crazy I’m sure. He’s always been so preoccupied and concerned with the thought of a possible pregnancy. I wonder if he’ll choose to not be part of the child’s life. I know he’ll support us financially and we’ll never want for anything. But will we have his love?

I really don’t know.

When I get to thinking about these things too much, over a cup of tea, or watching the girls play at the park, at night in bed, I close my eyes and go to another place. A time when my life was so simple, back to a few years ago, when Gabe and I and the girls, Claire only a toddler still, went to camp in Michigan. All we had was a tent, a couple of sleeping bags and pillows, and a portable barbecue.

And that’s all we needed.

CHAPTER FIVE

…it’s been so long.

T
he girls trail behind me as I make my way down the aisles, shoving items into my cart: cereals boxes, jam, peanut butter…

Claire holds a giant box of that sugary cereal she loves. “Mommy, Mommy, this one.”

“Uh, put that back, Claire,” I snap as I grab the smaller box off the top shelf. “This one is big enough.”

The girls manage to get me to buy a few not-so-good-for-you items I would have otherwise left on the shelves.

When I make my way to the pharmacy, I grab a bottle of prenatal vitamins and bury it under other items, careful to not let Chloe see. I’ve poured the contents of my last bottle into my regular women’s vitamins bottle. When I do these kinds of things, I feel like such a treacherous, cheating witch. I hate having secrets.
This is not me
, I keep reminding myself.

The line at the cash register is not too long, and the process not too headache-inducing. The girls beg for a last-minute chocolate bar.

“No way,” I tell them. “Don’t you know they specifically put these here for little kids to bug their parents to buy them?” I add. “You’re falling right into their trap.”

The cashier laughs. “And it also works for women on diets. They fall right off the wagon.”

I laugh, relishing this small moment of happiness. My life is normal enough, but only in sporadic fleeting moments.

As we head back to the car, I spot this grey sedan. There’s nothing special about it, but I’ve seen it before. And I recognize the driver — a man in his thirties or so, clean cut, sporting aviator glasses. I know this is a small town but it’s still pretty eerie. I hop in my car, and tell myself it must be just a coincidence.

The hormones are literally driving me crazy.

I’ve kept myself busy this week; looking after the girls, doing about a millions loads of laundry and cleaning the house. I want the hours to speed by, the days…I just want this mess to be over and done with. Because whenever I have a problem, it always seems to work itself out. But whom am I kidding? This will
not
work itself out.

The girls and I are lazy this morning. It’s ten o’clock and we’re still in our pajamas. I consider bringing them to the mall — it’s never too busy on Thursday afternoons. But part of me wants to get away, wants to escape.

I decide to call Caroline instead and head to Hanna’s. I have a craving for a chicken salad sandwich and Hanna’s are amazing. The cravings are coming on strong these days. I’ve finally gotten my appetite back — chocolate, macaroni and cheese, pickles (cliché but true), dill pickle chips, rice pudding and a lot of questionable choices.

I nip through the traffic as I make my way to the old downtown, old stomping ground of my youth. The stress seems to drain from my body as one of my favorite songs comes on the radio. But as I check my rear-view mirror to get into a right turning lane, I spot him again — the shaded stranger in the grey sedan. I instinctively slow down, and I keep an eye on him. As I make the lane change, he follows suit, and he’s right behind me. I get a better look now. Definitely the same guy; sleek shades, balding, high forehead, his mouth a thin line. I hadn’t freaked out before, but now my heart beats a little faster. As I make another turn into the parking lot behind Hanna’s, he drives on and I lose sight of him.

One time is nothing, two times is a coincidence, but three?

My legs are still a little unsteady as I make my way into Hanna’s Books and Treasures. Hanna greets me as soon as the front door bell clangs. “Hello, Mirella.”

I walk up to the deli counter, my hands shaking a little. “Hi, Hanna. How are you?”

She eyes me with a raised brow. “I’m well. But what’s wrong with you, love. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I blow out a breath. “It’s the craziest thing. There’s this creepy guy…I swear he’s following me.”

Her eyes grow wide. “What makes you say that?” she asks as she opens a container of freshly baked cookies.

“Well, I’ve seen him at least three times now, trailing me on the road.”

She looks up from the container of cookies. “You should get it on video.”

I smile. “Yes, I’ll be sure to bring my camcorder next time I go out and about.”

She laughs as she grabs one of the colorful plates off the old rustic shelf on the wall. “Perhaps you’re imagining things again, Mirella. You’ve always had a wonderful imagination,” she says as she piles the chocolate chip cookies on the plate, just so.

“You mean I’ve always been a bit paranoid?” I joke.

She laughs. “A little,” she concedes. “So, what will it be today?”

I look down at the display, ravenous. It all looks so good: chicken salad, pastrami on rye, roast beef and cheddar, egg salad. I can’t seem to make a choice.

The place hasn’t changed a bit in the last twenty years. Its walls are still lined with old books and a myriad of antiques and knick-knacks. The ice cream bar still beckons children on hot summer days. The same offerings are on display; sandwiches, pastries, banana bread, blueberry pie and the occasional yummy Ukrainian dessert. Eclectic plates and coffee cups, stacked on an old rustic sideboard, still draw the eye.

Back when I was in high school, I would always be here at Hanna’s. I’ve always loved books. This place was my haven. Gabe would always hang out with the cool kids at the mall, the arcade or the movies. And sometimes I’d join them, but I often preferred to retreat here. I worked here part-time and every summer for years. I know the place like the back of my hand.

Mrs. Kovalenko, or Hanna as I like to call her, a sweet little old lady, still owns the shop. She must be in her seventies now, and she and I have been friends for ages.

I smile up at her, digging into my bag. “I’ll have the chicken salad on whole wheat with a side garden salad and an iced tea, please.”